


glasses (or why I hate you)

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [16]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fluff, Glasses kink, M/M, Office Sex, Second Person, Time - Freeform, Wall Sex, top from bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glasses are simple, mundane. Forgot your contacts for the day, and who'd have known they'd bring out a side of Peter you haven't seen before?</p>
            </blockquote>





	glasses (or why I hate you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esmidsm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmidsm/gifts).



 

>  
> 
> Demand of me  
>  my best (you are).
> 
>    Marilyn Hacker , from  _Love, Death, And The Changing Of The Seasons_   
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

**8:42 a.m., Oscorp, Harry's office, 50th floor, Couch.**

He's still sleeping, eyes closed, breathing even. Like a koala bear. An adorable one, your Harry. A blanket hastily draped over him, lower back to toes. He'd slept, face down on the pillow, chest on the couch, arms at his side, fingers splayed flat on the leather surface. His hair was wild, fallow strands falling over his forehead and sticking out at the back. A bedhead for the memory bank. His lips were thin, pink and dry. Wry words out of these lips, you'd missed them. Soft taste of these lips, you hadn't quite known you'd been wanting until you kissed him last. He'd been sleeping, peaceful, uninterrupted, deep, and you'd hate to jolt him awake.

It'd been a long night.

You were sitting next to him, knees folded to your chest, arms hugging the blanket covering you from the waist down. A hand ran through your hair, tousled and looking as if you'd been caught in a riot (not exactly an exaggerated impression of last night's—uh, engagements), and your eyes drifted to his sleeping form.

Leaned down and smoothed his hair. Pressed your lips to his crown.

_Good boy. Good Harry._

His glasses lay askew to the top left corner of the pillow, a few inches' reach from his hand. Black rimmed, thin. You fished them out, fingers drawing across the legs. Placed them on your knees and smiled.

Glasses. Who'd have known. Really, who'd have known.

**7:21p.m., day before, Oscorp, Main office, 50th floor, Chair.**

Menken was a pain in the ass, that's a pretty understated and standard fact every Oscorp employee should have known. He was playing you around, nearly wheeling you around in a kiddie car if he'd have a chance.

Twenty, his eyes'd cut right through you, as he droned on about whatever bullshit they'd come up with to back the latest Oscorp innovation at the upcoming exhibition fair downtown. Twenty, said his eyes, sharp and directed solely at you. Twenty, and you wanted to run a corporation, you little prodigal, hedonist child.

Tinkering with a rubrix cube was a puzzle much more solvable than battling this asshole.

You could have him fired, if you wanted, but Felicia had stepped in. Said he was too much a part of this company, a node in the center of the network of Oscorp employees, and you'd taken in a deep breath, waved a hand, dismissed her from the room.

He was trampling on your nerves, squashing them to bits, worsening your migraine condition (God knows _that_ was pleasant), and he still had to stay.

You liked your ristretto in the morning—couldn't live without it, in fact. Loved the welcoming committee accompanying you from the Bugatti to your office on the top floor. Became used to the usual flurry of papers to sign and meetings to attend—you listened. Obviously. Or Felicia was. This was a thing you'd cared about more than school. Much. Contented yourself with being preoccupied in making decisions and ordering Felicia around.

You'd tolerated your work. Wanted to think, from your perspective, you'd settled in, assumed your role, in a quite okay position.

Menken seemed to exist to tear all that apart. A funny raison d’etre, if you were to think of a phrase.

You wiped your forehead with the back of your palm. The board meeting documents had to be read by tonight. This joint agreement contract needed to be signed, and you were currently on page one of the daily stock report.

Forgotten your contacts this morning, woken up late. Too many shots of scotch last night, that's all your mind remembered. Had to grab you emergency glasses from the glove compartment.

Granted, they were latest season's Prada. Sleek, simple, clean. Black-rimmed. The store clerk wouldn't stop praising you when you'd tried them on for laughs, so you bought them just to shut him up.

(There were compliments and praises, and then there were compliments and praises.)

Truth was, you despised glasses. Avoided wearing them when you could. Would have gotten a surgery, but you'd have a couple of years to live out this shortened life, anyway.

It was like a thunder in the middle of glaring sunlight on a when that doctor in that ghastly all-white hall of the clinic in Boston told you you'd have to wear them 'for a while.' Doctor language, for the rest of your life. Ten years ago, and the pieces of that day had glued tight on your mind. A vivid painting, lights and colors and contour.

Glasses. Who'd have known. Really, who'd have known.

So you were sitting there, ass on the thousand-dollar ergonomics chair you'd had brought in specially for your office, pen twirling in one hand, the other flipping between pages of the thirty-pages thick contract on the glass desk, your hair looking as if a woodland creature had had a party in it, and your eyes drugged out. You'd stepped away from mirrors, these past couple of hours. Scarred to check the size of those apparent, worrying eyebags you'd been sporting like a zombie who'd forgotten the definition of sleep, even at a predesignated time, altogether.

The glass door was pushed open, and you jerked your head up, glasses at the bridge of your nose.

A beam of sunlight in your darkening world.

Peter had appeared.

**8:56 a.m., Oscorp, Harry's Office, Couch.**

Harry was stirring, body stretched out, fingers clawing at the pillow, muffled, little mewling noises that sent (totally) unjustified tingles down your back elicited from his lips.

You waited, elbow on your knee, chin on your palm, watching.

He flipped around, back of head flopped on the pillow, arms on his chest. His eyelids fluttered open, and you'd snuck your head in front of them, your hands balanced on the couch.

He was rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand, grumbling nonsense words.

Still not quite awake. The usual.

I hate you, Peter Parker, were the first words out of his lips, and you chuckled, shook your head.

Fingers pinched his cheek, and he threw a feeble punch at your chest.

I mean it, he still insisted, your stubborn child, fist dropped limply to his side. Your fingers were tangled in his hair.

No, ya don't.

He bit his lip.

Yes, I do, Pete. Yes, I do.

**7:46p.m., day before, Oscorp, Main office, Couch.**

Sex with Peter had become...well, a regular feature in your appointment book. Days. At least once at week, if you had to admit.

Since the first time, when he'd fallen into your bed and into you, it'd become distracting to let him go. To dismiss yourself the temptation, the thirst, to jump his bones, almost.

Sex with Peter was intense. Violent. What you'd asked for, he'd given. Always a pleasure to please you, that one. The thrusts. His cock stretching you out, slamming in, hitting the spot. And yet it's been gentle. Mild, obliging. His voice whispering close to your ear, his hand holding you to him, lips nuzzling your neck, pleading. Begging. Asking. _Come for me, Har, be a good boy and come for me._

_Come, you're so close. Come._

You'd fallen into beds with him, his place. Yours. Hotels. Back alleys. Bathroom stall in a bar. (That was a one shot thing. A slam against the wall brought on by tequila shots. He'd entered you, and it was over way too fast and he was breathing down your neck. Quick, sloppy blowjob—his lips felt surprisingly better when drunk—and you'd made a mess of your Lanvin sweater.)

You'd purposely planted yourself on him on your good days, skinny jeans, winks, private smiles meant for him. Flirted, and he'd wrapped his arms around you as you'd yelped, let yourself be dragged over to the closest, available flat surface. Did things your way when you wanted him, never asking straight out you needed to have him. It was more fun that way.

But tonight. Tonight you'd had on your dark navy blazer and vest, matching skinny tie, all on a white shirt. Jeans to finish the outfit because you wanted to piss Menken off. All Dolce and Gabbana because you'd been to a film premiere the week before and the clothes were offered at your doorstep. A walking marketing tool, you knew, but who would refuse good ol' DG? Chanel sneakers because they added the whole I don't care aspect to the outfit. (Not loafers, not Oxfords, not today. Not when you felt like disarming the entire directors' board, showing up to the noon meeting dressed like this. Formal, but cool. Those fossils could suck it.) and Peter was staring at you, mouth gaping.

Could have been wearing your speedo, for all his eyes were focused on you for.

You knew that type of eyes. Had them directed on you too many times to count. Unquenchable thirst. Immediate, inexplicable need. Blatant, full-on lust.

You just didn't think it'd taken form in Peter Parker's eyes.

**7:34p.m., day before, Oscorp, Harry's Office, 50th floor, Door.**

A candle needed fire to burn. A bomb needed fuel to ignite. A network needed battery to power.

Everyone's got something—Some. Thing.—he's undeniably attracted to, right? Something very, so painfully, awfully, specific that set the gears in motion, flicked the switch, turned him on.

Gwen was sweet. Was an angel. Curled blonde hair, green eyes. Textbooks hugged to her chest. Those long boots and black tights that sent your mind astray. Lips that could talk Science so fluently your ears never wanted to stop hearing her.

And then you'd found out she read Kerouac and Vonnegut, and it'd become final. Your attraction. Because how could she be more perfect? With that face, with that mind. And you'd had her, just as you wanted, and Kerouac had never quite sounded the same. She'd recited his "the only people for me are the mad ones. The one who are mad to live, mad to talk, and to be saved. Desirous of everything at the same time...burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles..." as she reached behind her and unclasped her bra, breasts out to play, legs clad in tights wrapped around your waist, underwear kicked down to the floor, her body sinking into yours.

You could never read him without recalling that image engraved in your mind. You were playing strip-and-quotes (nerd game, shut up) and she'd clearly won, hands down.

And then Harry had waltzed his way into your life. Driven a gap between you and her, not that you'd minded. It was about time.

Sex with Harry was fun. Spontaneous. A release. You were free to let loose, and forget yourself for those nice little while's. You'd hung out with him more, trying to catch up on the years you'd lost with him, and reacquainted yourself with him, body and mind. He was a shameless flirt, a peacock who'd flaunted his feathers because he could, and you loved to take him in your arms and get inside him and watch that picture perfect facade crumble.

Left him begging for you.

_Fuck me, please, Pete. I want that goddamn beautiful cock of yours in me. Fuck, I need you. Now._

His voice, rough, rasping, did wonders to your cock.

But tonight. Tonight it wasn't about his voice. You'd raised an eyebrow when you stepped in and he looked up, black rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and your lips went dry. Your throat parched.

You had a thing, you'd guessed, for glasses. And here you were, thinking you'd been safe, because your best friend had never worn them.

They set you off, these accessories. Put you on a spin and left you until you'd forgotten your own name.

He could have looked goofy in them. Mismatched, a clown.

And here he'd looked like the not-part-time model that he was. Aloof, uncaring, droopy eyes glancing into the camera.

Black rimmed glasses framing his perfect cerulean blues, accentuating his cheekbones.

What a sight. What. A. Sight.

You'd breathed in, blinked. Wondered if your eyes had blurred into that drugged out state Gwen had called out one time when she'd bent down to pick up her textbook, breasts peeking out at you.

You stepped in, closed the door behind you. Gulped in air.

"What, you wear glasses now, Har?"

**9:02a.m., Oscorp, Main office, Pete's arms, Couch.**

Was this because of last night? he was asking, gathering you into his arms.

Your nose twitched. Sweat and sex, permeating from his skin. It's been hours since it happened. One whiff of the smell, and you could feel his skin slapping on yours.

_Like that. Harry. Like that. Oh, fuck. Jesus. I'm so--_

Your body was sore. Your legs hurt, and your mind you didn't even want to talk about.

It'd been a long night, and you only had him to blame.

You really need to ask? you'd pressed a firm finger to his lips, the ones he'd hoped to brush on yours, and he'd frowned.

Naturally.

But - he started, hand taking your smaller palm in his, But- your glasses.

They'd slid down from his knees to his feet, your glasses.

But that's all he'd ever been on about since last night. Your glasses.

Your fucking glasses.

**7:50pm, day before, Oscorp, Harry's office, Couch.**

You'd watched _Mean Girls_ once, maybe twice in your life, when the film was showing on cable or something, but you understood, this once, what that redhead was on about for the second act of the film.

Pure word vomit.

You'd been flustered, anxious, cheeks burning to the point you thought you needed to dump your head into a bucket of cold water. Words lost in your nervous, constricted throat. Unable to speak.

And here were words spilling out of you, a flooding stream, an impulsive flow.

He'd adjusted the glasses (you'd clicked your sneakers on the carpet. Finger scratching the pocket of your jeans.), and nodded, brusque. "Not just now," he'd shrugged, "Forgot my contacts today."

Index finger touched a leg of the glasses, a clear self-conscious gesture, and warmth pooled through you, throbbing in your head and sprawling in your skin, and you'd wanted to get your hands on them, on him, too.

"Did I look weird or—"

You'd waved a hand in front of him, probably too frantic, frantic enough to cause a puzzled glint in those eyes behind the lenses (Good god have mercy on you), approaching his place behind the desk.

"I—no," you blurted out, "You look hot. Fucking sexy. Your glasses—I love them on you."

Like you said, pure word vomit.

He'd rose up from his chair, glasses standing out against that pale, pampered face of his, a hand reached across the desk, back of his palm feeling your forehead.

"Pete—"

You took his hand in yours, placed in on your chest, atop your heart. Breathed in. Couple of gasps of air.

"Har," you started, "I'm serious. I want you. I want you now. With those glasses on, I can't think. D'you—you know how it feels? Like heat. Crazy heat in me, and I meant it when I said you're sexy--not that you're not already—just. You wearing glasses I'm. Not okay. Sorry, but I'm not—okay."

**8:02pm, day before, Main Office, Behind desk, Standing.**

The first time you'd ever heard Peter Parker swear was the day you returned. When you both went off to the riverside. He'd fumbled with his camera settings, a foot tripping on one of the rocks as he was trying to get ahead of you to snap a picture.

And then you'd heard it. One curt, beautiful word. Its emphasis, the frustration channeled through the short sound.

"Fuck," he'd said aloud, gathering himself back. Stood in front of you, facing you, camera in hand. Secured.

You'd crossed your arms at your chest. Tilted your head at him, "Thought you don't swear, Mr. Nice Guy," you'd remarked.

Brushed his hand on his sweater, as if getting rid of some invisible dust. "Times change," he was muttering as he'd bent down to pick up some rocks in his hand, "I swear. You’ve come back. What's the news?"

You'd laughed, and let him toss a rock into the water.

There was the Peter you knew.

And the Peter you didn't know--didn't think you knew--this side of him--was standing in front of you, eyes drinking you in, cheeks crimson, sweat on his upper lip.

You look hot, he'd said, in response to your interrupted question, and doubt formed in your mind.

What—

That was straightforward of him, honest. But not the three honest words that usually came out of his lips. You look hot. He'd never said that to a girl, to that Stacy chick, to a guy, to anyone else. And he was saying it to you.

\--the—

Fucking sexy. Okay. Top 'You look hot' with this, and what did you get. One flustered Peter Parker. Swearing. Rapid fire. Fucking sexy. You. Sex. Here. Now. Out of his lips. His call, and your skin jittered, turning the phrase over in your mind.

\--fuck.

You glasses--I love them on you.

Jesus.

So it was the glasses. It was--he'd taken to it. A kink. A turn on. A trigger. I love them on you--no. That--that couldn't be what you'd started to think it was--it couldn't--Peter's not—

From those sweet lips of a swearing novice?

You'd extended a hand, wanted to feel his forehead, see if he'd caught a fever, behaving as he did, (Exception: You were aware of that strong selfish streak, to disregard others' needs. As the only child, as you were, but he was an exception. The only one.) but he took your hand in his, planted it close to his heart.

That chest. Those muscles. You didn't know when he'd started going to the gym, but it was one hell of a pleasant, delightful shock the first time he'd taken off his shirt in front of you. Your cock wept for attention then, strained against your pants, and you'd splayed, ran your hands over that skin.

Your hand felt small, delicate, in his strong ones. Lukewarm skin enveloping yours.

You sensed his heart. Erratic, banging hard against his chest. Blood rush. He breathed, and you met his eyes.

Clear chocolate eyes, now troubled and anxious. Boiling.

**9:05a.m., Oscorp, Harry's Office, Couch.**

He pouted when you repeated the word. Glasses. Okay. Maybe you shouldn't anymore. Maybe that's enough.

But it was hard to let go, considering how good. How fantastic. How fucking delicious last night was.

And you were both still here, too worn out, too exhausted to head anywhere afterward. Dropped on the couch, blankets from the closet on you.

You picked up his glasses. Two fingers, the accessory dangling in your hand. Brushed your lips on a leg.

This is a real problem with you, isn't it, you heard him say, a pillow hitting your back following the comment.

You'd tossed his glasses to the table next to the couch, both arms wrapping him up into you. Lips nibbled on his ear. Little somersaults in your stomach when you saw him shudder.

You're a real problem to me, mister, you whispered, You are. 

**8:13p.m., Oscorp, Main Office, Couch. More specifically, Peter's lap**

He caressed your hand with his. Took a finger into his mouth, licked, sucked. One, then two. Slow, deliberately drawn out, enough to evoke a gasp from you.

And when he spoke, when his voice echoed against the glass walls, you felt your knees shake, your nerves fluttering.

"I want you to fuck me, Har," he'd released your fingers, lips wet, red, "Have me against the wall. That wall right there. Lock your arms on me. Hold me," his free hand trailed down to his jeans, pulling the zip down. "Take out your cock and thrust it into me. Hard." He was tugging his jeans and boxers down, hand stroking his own cock, eyes closed, a groan from his lips.

"Make me beg for it. Make me gag. I want to breathe your name. I want to --ahh, fuck, say your name. Repeat it, repeat it until I come. Make me come, Har, hurt me. Thrust in. Give me more. Give me of you. Give me everything. I want to come---oh, god--your cock would feel good in me. So good. Fucking heaven. You think?"

He'd paused, and you were gasping for breath, your clothes feeling like extraneous layers of skin.

"Pete, fucking hell."

Revelation re: Peter Parker No.14:

He could do dirty talk. And quite good too, if you were to say. Your cock throbbed, fabric tented at your crotch. You'd rushed around the desk, took Peter's free hand and led him to the couch. He had both hands up then.

Pushed him down on the black leather. Rid yourself of your clothes, jeans, boxers, blazer, and climbed up on him, legs straddling his form.

"Pete, all you gotta do," you leaned down, swallowed his lips in yours, hand loosening your tie, "Is ask."

Tossed your tie to the floor, and ground your hips down. He rewarded you with a precious, strangled moan.

Unbuttoned your vest, and dropped it to the floor, hips circling around him. Hands smoothed down his Coldplay tee, tugged at the hem.

He raised his arms, let you help him take the tee off over his head, his hand working at your buttons when you'd done so, brushing your shirt away. And you'd sat, on top of him, flesh to flesh. Heart against heart. And you'd heard your own voice,

"Now, did you say up against the wall?"

**9:16am, Oscorp, Main Office, Peter's arms, Couch.**

You raised your head, glancing over at the wall behind you. Glass. Transparent. Sunlight shining through.

There's probably still finger marks there, and the outline of his body, pressed against the glass, huffing underneath you.

Fingers scratching the glass, and the sounds had only driven you on.

He'd followed your line of sight. Palms came around, covered your eyes.

You chuckled.

Was I good?

Trick question. You happened to be very aware of how he'd answered.

Exactly how I wanted you, he replied, tongue lingering on your ear, and you cuddled closer into him, hand stroking his arm, Exactly how I asked you to fuck me.

Exactly, huh? you turned on him, lips sucking at the skin on his neck.

Exactly, he whispered, tilting his head back, Exactly.

**8:50pm, Oscorp, Harry's Office, Wall.**

Oh.

_Fuck._

You know the view from the top of the Empire State? Top of the Rockefeller center? That sort of wide, panoramic view of New York City? The five Burroughs, the streets, the avenues, the Park in all its glory, that square in the middle of skyscrapers and commercial buildings.

Those were 100 floors up, morning and evening tours. Lines of tourists. Long queues up to the top.

This was 50 floors up, night time. No tours, only a private show. No lines, only a rush of not being able to reach there fast enough (the glasses were still on the bridge of his nose. That was to blame.). No tourists, only him and you. No queues, only the staggering to get up from the couch.

This was 50 floors up, and this was the definition of breathtaking.

Harry's office overlooked the Brooklyn bridge, the Manhattan skyline, buildings over the Hudson River and blinding lights lit up during the night.

Your face was pressed flat on the glass, your naked body grazing the cool surface, arms outstretched, hands into claws. He'd come up behind you, glasses at the bridge of his nose, cheek on yours, hands at your waist, his voice a whisper, a brushing at your ear, breaths that had your cock twitching.

"How did you say you want me?"

You heard sounds--beeping of the desk's drawer, items being snatched up, paper being torn, stretching of rubber on skin, squirting of liquid on palms.

Ah.

You winced, bit down your lip. Soft palms, skating across your skin. Lubing up your hole. Just the thought, the anticipation, and you'd almost hit your head on the glass, fingers scratching lines down the surface.

"Was it--"

A gasp. Loud. Moist, damp trail dragging up your hole. Finished with the wet sound of tongue lapping on lips.

Harry.

"--this way?"

You writhed, cock straining for release, pre-come stain on the glass.

"Har, come on," you pleaded, voice hoarse, barely holding on, barely feeling yourself there. The glass was cold, hard, the air conditioner was humming, the room stinking of sweat and skin, and you were barely there.

"Oh."

A finger forced its way into you. Two, spreading across your hole, and you moaned, skin quivering, ass tightening around the fingers stretching you.

"Har," your call was a growl, "Stop playing around. Get the fuck in me."

You heard a laugh, your devil child. Whimpered involuntarily when the fingers left you without a warning, and—

Deep breath.

"Relax, I'm with you, handsome," his hand stroked your arm, light, teasing. Tip of his cock brushed your hole, and animal noises escaped you, your head thrown back and your heart taking over your ribcage.

"How's--" he was about to play a bit longer, body pressing against yours, chest on your back, flesh on flesh. Heart on heart.

"Now," you screamed, "Now H—"

He entered before you could finish, hands steadying himself at your hips. Started off strong, frequent thrusts and heavy breathing. Moans on your part and panted, abrupt intakes of air at every thrust.

"Har," you extended a hand, brought his chin closer to you, so you could focus on those cerulean blues and remind yourself that they were your reality--that they were yours.

"God," short breaths, wide mouth, wet tongue. Blood boiling in your cock. Aching, "God, you feel so good, Har, so—ah."

His eyes were bright, blue, bluest, dense with want, his grip on your skin tightened. Pressure. Fleeting, pinched pains. Fingers digging in your skin.

"That what you want?" you saw yourself reflected in his eyes, face red, forehead drenched in sweat. You tilted his head closer, hand on his cheek. Lips taking his, lapping him up, swallowing him in, drinking him whole, as he moved against you, in you.

"That what you want?" he repeated when you freed his lips, a breathy whisper, and you could feel the drain in those words.

"Give me more," you panted, hand hitting the glass, his skin slick on yours, those glasses bopping on his nose, those goddamn glasses, "Christ, give me all of you."

Your cursing seemed to spur him on, and he'd rushed. sounds of skin slapping skin echoed in your ears, blinding. A reverie, a bubble, a glass box. Him and you, bodies entertained, locked into each other. In. Out. Sounds. Fucking deafening discordance. Controlled chaos. Your little debauched room, your little escapist mess. In this office, in his world, you'd come barging in, demanded your way, and he'd taken you all, merged your worlds, your bodies, your minds. Let desires run their course. Spill over the edge of thought. Steal away conscience and consume your hearts.

Sensation buzzed through you. Zinged, when he hit the spot. He came, spilling into you, body limp on top of yours, and you took his hand when he slid out, rubbed it on your cock. Couple of hard strokes, and delirium darted from your head to your cock. You thought you'd seen black, the world a clamorous, raging hush. An idle lull. And you'd heard his breathing, ragged, torn, next to you, when you blinked your eyes hard.

Stain on the glass wall. White hot.

And you were back.

And he was back.

And time seemed to restart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much again for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos! Criticisms and comments are always welcome and appreciated! They fuel a writer's heart :). <3
> 
> Inspired by P'Es's, Midsummer's art :P  
> (NSFW: https://twitter.com/midsmstar/status/491651965412061185)
> 
> With love and ristretto,
> 
> x


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